


Consequence

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [14]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crashing and burning isn't pretty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> Live By The Sword "interlude." This is set immediately post **Friction, Baby**. 
> 
> All stories posted in the order they were written. Thank you so much for reading! It is much appreciated.

Lancelot stubbed out the cigarette under his booted foot, and hunkered back down to the ground, watching through binoculars as Arthur continued to interrogate the bicyclists that had called in the incident.

“Boss?”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

“Boss – we need to go. Everything’s done, it’s all taken care of.”

 

“I said I’m busy, Roarke. Just take the car and go. I’ll walk.”

 

The stooge hanging over his shoulder stared at Lancelot as if he were crazy. “Uh – Mr. Benoit – you really can’t walk. Too many people might see you.” Lance ground his teeth, and tried not to backhand the idiot there and then. He drew in five deep breaths, and turned around, still laying on the hill above the warehouse. “Ben – it’s Ben, right? I’ll be fine. Take. The. Car. And. Go.”

 

Something in his brown eyes must have convinced the guy he was serious, for Ben backed away, nodding fiercely in agreement. A few moments later Lance heard the squeal of expensive tires and turned his head back around, peering through the binos again. Arthur was handing a business card to the witnesses, and after shaking the man’s hand and touching the woman gently on the shoulder (always the empathizer), he walked toward his parked bike, fiddling with something in his hand. Lance tried to refocus the binoculars, but couldn’t see what it was.

 

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, touching the spot where his cufflink had been. He had plenty; he didn’t care about that. But leaving something so obvious at a crime scene – well that was just plain stupid. Especially a crime scene his … a crime scene Arthur Castus was working. The last Lancelot had seen of the victims they had been alive and breathing. And that’s how he preferred to remember it. Anything else? He had no idea.

 

He had a great lawyer – the man could have made a jury like Mussolini – so he wasn’t concerned about anything legal. Besides, he had most of the judges in the city in his pocket.

 

No – the niggling little voice at the back of his head was worrying about something else. And that something was currently rubbing at the bridge of his nose and looking like he was carrying every problem in the world on his shoulders. “Arthur, Arthur,” he murmured, watching still as the other man conferred finally with one of his deputies, then mounted the bike and roared off, “you’ll never learn.” He stood, dusting the dirt off his pants, slung the binos back into their case, and began the walk to the nearest train station.

 

**Two months later.**

 

His office was dark; the plush carpet absorbing most sounds, the paintings on the walls silent witnesses to his debauchery. He wiped the end of his nose, making sure the white residue was gone, and sniffed loudly. The edges of his vision got spotty, and he felt the familiar whoosh in his brain that signalled the arrival of the C train. How many hits? He had lost count…he thought. 

 

He looked askance at the wall, one eyebrow cocked in defiance.

 

“What?” he yelled at last. “If you wouldn’t shut up, I wouldn’t have to do this.” 

The Van Gogh merely sat there and looked pretty, it’s spirals and stars achingly familiar to him. Lance stared at it a moment longer, then made a snorting sound, his hand sweeping over his desk, the mirror and what little powder there was left crashing to the floor. “Fuck ‘em,” he said angrily, tearfully, his eyes leaking, his fingers dragging across his nose again – this time to catch the running snot that seemed to fall like a tide. He couldn’t stop crying – couldn’t stop it with women, or booze, or men, or drugs.

The portrait of Roland Benoit stared benignly across the large office, but his look was predatory and accusing to his son, who stood shakily, his shoes left behind the desk, his hands clutching a small picture that usually resided in his pocket. He marched to the portrait, and stopped, sniveling like a child, head throbbing, heart full of one word, one emotion, one reality.

 

_Arthur._

_Guilt._

_Alone._

 

He had been right, and his miracle working lawyer had managed to separate him from any of the doings down at the warehouse district – those poor people having been shot by roving looters, which of course the judge believed wholeheartedly, dismissing the charges faster than you could say ‘bribe.’ Which of course Lancelot would never do. He had people who took care of that for him.

 

Seeing Arthur at the courthouse…Gods. Lance never wanted to go through anything like that again. He had snuck glances at Arthur and the tall, bald officer that had accompanied him, only meeting Arthur’s gaze once. The green of the man’s eyes had been overshadowed by the dark circles under them, and Lance could swear he had felt the hurt radiating out of the empty looking irises.

The hearing hadn’t taken long – and Lancelot couldn’t help but flash his smirk at the ADA as the woman had brushed past him, but it had frozen on his face like some death’s head grin when Arthur and the tall officer had glanced at him as they too passed. Lance had dropped the expression, his nails creating little half moons of blood in his palms. His lawyer had tut-tutted at him, insisting they visit the lavatory and wash it off.

Standing there staring at his father’s portrait, the blood showed brightly, only this time it was larger, deeper, and all encompassing. His hands were filled with it. He could smell it, could taste it if he had a mind to, could feel the dripping of it onto his bare feet. He wanted to feel nothing, hence the coke. It wasn’t working. It was creating images instead.

“Happy now?” he whispered to the stern face of Roland. “You like what you’ve made of me?” He clenched his hands into fists, the small picture in his right one making a crinkling sound. He gasped, his face taking on a horrified expression, and he stumbled back to his desk, mumbling apologies and platitudes to himself, and the tiny remembrance he held. His tears dripped onto it as he wiped frantically at it with his shirt, smearing the salty moisture around on it, straightening it out.

 

Himself and Arthur at Arthur’s graduation from University.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, the coke making his head swim and doing funny things to his stomach. He wanted to vomit and scream at the same time – and was pretty sure he already had. Oh well – that’s what his money was for – to keep people around to clean up his messes. He sat heavily on the soft carpet, his head leaning against the cool glass of the window, the city and it’s inhabitants looking ridiculously like a movie model from the extreme height of his building.

 

He held the little photo reverently, his emotions roller coastering, his fingers unconsciously wiping at his nose and eyes again, doing a perfect imitation of a young boy who’s last ice cream cone had been dropped on the hot sidewalk. He lay over on his side, and curled into himself, that little boy fighting his way out of the imitation, and taking over the man.

 

The man allowed it with no argument. The man was tired of responsibility, tired of having to be careful, tired of not being able to feel.

 

The hot tears trickling down Lancelot’s face mixed with the snot and spit that he couldn’t stop, and he clutched the photo to his chest, and he cried. He sobbed and moaned and writhed on the floor, alternating between screaming his hatred for Arthur and their situation at the top of his lungs, and begging for the other man to come and save him, to love him again.

 

Guinevere found him there at seven the next morning, asleep, exhausted, his clothing wrinkled and stained, the picture torn into bits that were scattered around Lancelot’s head. 

She bit her lip, ignoring the helplessness that welled up in her, and moved finally, opening the blinds. She picked up the phone, speaking softly into it. A few moments later a woman carrying a coffee service entered the office, left the tray on Lance’s desk, and disappeared without a comment.

 

A few slaps to the face woke her brother, and she helped him stagger to the bathroom, where he promptly vomited on the floor before collapsing against the side of the shower. She ran the water as hot as she knew he could stand it, and gathered him up, stripping him quickly of his dirty clothing, and shoved him into the spacious shower, keeping the door open so she could make sure he didn’t fall asleep again, or drown.

 

He stood, wavering, then shuffled to the spray, crying out as the heat hit him. When Gwen was certain he wouldn’t fall, she left the office bathroom, and poured out two large containers of black coffee, taking out the cinnamon toast the maid had brought in.

 

She ignored the bleak, raw sobs that hurt her ears and made her stomach lurch.

 

*

 

The plush robe made Lancelot look a lot smaller than he actually was; Gwen was surprised at just how skinny he looked, and how beaten down. She would never tell him that, however.

 

She handed him a plate of the toast, and one of the mugs of coffee, taking a sip as she watched him. She sighed when he pushed the bread away and drank some of the coffee, wincing at the sharpness of the blend.

 

“What is this? Sumatra?”

 

She nodded. He kept drinking.

 

“Thanks,” he said finally. She merely nodded again; she wouldn’t make him say what for.

 

“The photo is destroyed,” she commented after a minute. “You tore it up.”

 

He twisted his mouth into a grimmace, but tilted his head in understanding. “Okay.”

 

“I can get you another one-“

 

“It’s okay, Gwen,” he cut her off, drinking more coffee. His face was gradually taking on some color, although his eyes looked like someone had punched him. Gwen had never seen such blackness on a person that hadn’t been in a fight.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself.”

 

Silence. His eyes drifted to look out the window over her shoulder. “I don’t. Not normally. Last night was…bad.” They both knew he was lying, but left it alone. 

She stood, finishing her coffee, and grabbing up her purse, made for the door. She stopped and put her hand on his shoulder. They looked at one another. She shrugged. “If you need me…” she trailed off.

 

“Thanks,” he said again, and she walked out, her face blank.

 

The door clicking behind her startled Lancelot, and he focused again on the window, and the sun that was streaming through the blinds. Cheerful fucking sun. So cheerful he thought it should have a little cartoon smiley face drawn on it.

 

He drank more coffee, and stared out the window, and didn’t examine the mess he’d made of his life.


End file.
